


red in tooth and claw

by rushvalleys



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Introspection, Scars, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushvalleys/pseuds/rushvalleys
Summary: Catra doesn’t need home—she’s never had one to begin with. She has a sharp mind, weapons born into her fingers and toes that can slice through flesh or metal or rock, and she has air filling her lungs. She is enough on her own.It feels good—no,great—to tear the Force Captain badge off of her chest and throw it as far as she can into the sand beneath her, then drive away and watch it become an indiscriminate piece of gravel.And just like that, her last tie to the Horde is severed.-Catra, moving forward through the Crimson Waste.





	red in tooth and claw

**Author's Note:**

> some pre-s3 speculation, because at one point i was like “let’s write a fun 10+ chapter au where catra and adora both go to the crimson waste,” and then it HAPPENED and i have a lot of thoughts about that, i’m not saying dreamworks should hire me but i’m not Not saying that
> 
> warning for depictions of violence and a portrayal of an anxiety attack, nothing too serious but worth mentioning!

When Catra looks down, the Force Captain badge sits heavy on her chest, gleaming gold and green in the sunlight. She hadn’t noticed it before—her blood turns hot and cold all at once when she does. She grasps at it with sharp, urgent claws, leaving scratches on the surface

The Crimson Waste sprawls before her, red clay burning against the balls of her feet once she lands her skiff and nothing at all in the horizon line. The world around her is new and never ending, it seems.

It might be scary if she were someone else, if she had ever developed any sort of comfort zone. She only knew the Fright Zone before this, sure. But that was never home. It was barely even a place to rest her head. 

She doesn’t need home—she’s never had one to begin with. She has a sharp mind, weapons born into her fingers and toes that can slice through flesh or metal or rock, and she has air filling her lungs. She is enough on her own.

It feels good—no, _great—_ to tear the badge off of her chest and throw it as far as she can into the sand beneath her, then drive away and watch it become an indiscriminate piece of gravel.

And just like that, her last tie to the Horde is severed.

* * *

Scorpia accompanies her through the Waste, which proves to be both a comfort and a complication. Well, “accompanies” is a strong word. It implies she came of her own accord. Really, she was _sent_ to escort Catra to Beast Island—one Force Captain doing the bidding of the other. Hordak barely ever cares about the loss of a single soldier, but as his former second-in-command, Catra’s mind wields something dangerous. Catra’s almost flattered by the attention.

Force Captain Scorpia was tasked with a mission to bring Catra to her demise— _former_ Force Captain Scorpia took that as a cue for defection and a chance to lead Catra through the wasteland that remains of her family’s kingdom, nestled on top of Scorpion Hill.

Catra thinks it funny. Here she is, a woman at her heels who would gladly choose her over her duty, and it does nothing to curb the dread she feels when her mind wanders back to Adora, to the Horde, to She-Ra.

Catra’s mind always wanders back—as much as she hates it, she can’t stop it. Adora looms everywhere—dry in her mouth, tacky like she’s just eaten a too-old ration pack or finished a drill with an empty bottle of water; in the heat, in the singe on her skin that reminds her of looking up at the brightest moon on the Fright Zone docks; in the claws that remember too well the skin and blood that’s been underneath them. 

But now, especially, it wanders back—now that she’s picking fights throughout the Waste to climb her way to the top, now as she dissects her current enemy, a lizard monster _thing:_ brawny but stupid, strong but slow, and at least eight feet tall.

She smiles, a fang poking onto her lip. She’s fought this monster before.

Scorpia’s got the crowd—a lizard-looking girl, standing next to a woman with goat’s horns, standing next to some other faces she can’t make out—chanting her name, and she’s drunk off adrenaline as she climbs on top of her opponent and slashes as hard as she can into the scales of his back. She hears his scales crunch underneath her hands, gruesome and satisfying and disgusting all at once.

When the lizard falls to the ground, she steals his whip. It’s black, leather—it’ll match the jacket she swiped off the back of another unworthy opponent who dared ambush her earlier that week. 

Or, she thinks it was earlier in the week. Time moves differently when you’re not on a military regiment. It’s new to her. It’s _all_ new to her.

“Wildcat! That was awesome— _you_ were awesome!” Scorpia pulls her into a hug, and that’s where the complication comes in. She’s tolerating Scorpia’s bone-crushing hugs more and more these days because she’s the only friendly face Catra’s got. But she’s not blind. She can see the doe-eyed look in Scorpia’s eye when they talk, when Catra gets done beating up some Crimson Waste ruffian and Scorpia is cheering passionately from the sidelines.

She’s just not ready to have a thing to _care_ about. She’s got no ties anymore, and it’s refreshing. No ties means nothing can hold her back. No one can hand her their heart and later watch as Catra destroys it.

She looks back—the lizard is lying prone, chest on the ground and heaving. Two pairs of four lines adorn his back, right down the middle, oozing with blood. Her stomach churns.

She’s got to pick a new finishing blow, she thinks.

* * *

Sometimes Catra forgets what it’s like to ache, that the pain in her chest when she thinks of what she’s lost, _who_ she’s lost, is an ache that she owns. It’s an ache that’s almost comforting. It’s familiar and grounding—it reminds her of what started her on this path.

It’s not _all_ about Adora. It’s always been about Adora, and it’s never been about Adora. Sure, if Catra hadn’t been her friend and she hadn’t been Shadow Weaver’s protege of sorts, Catra may have been left for dead in the woods, but maybe that would have been preferable to a life under the Horde’s watch. And, sure, at the same time, if Adora weren’t in the picture, maybe she would’ve had the chance to prove herself, to have her own strength recognized and have that Force Captain badge handed to her as something other than an afterthought.

But it’s not that she’s still mourning the loss of Adora. On the contrary, really—she’s gotten stronger, tougher, _better_ without her around. Had she been cast off alone from the Horde months ago, she’d be a wreck. She had nothing else then, just Adora and their shared bunk. The skiff underneath her feet and the desert that envelops her, the blotchy red tufts of sand below and dry air leaving cracks in the pads of her palms, show her how far she’s come.

But then the skiff will turn at too sharp a degree and a breeze will hit the back of Catra’s neck, cool and quick as it clings to her sweat, and it will remind her of the cold halls she and Adora once roamed, of the pipes and machinery she climbed, of the chamber that stored the Black Garnet, the hot surface of the stone draining the heat from the room around her, how uncomfortably warm Shadow Weaver’s hands felt against the cold of her cheeks—

The breeze brings her back down. It reminds her the ache is her own—not Adora’s, not Shadow Weaver’s. But hers, as so few things have ever been.

* * *

It figures: halfway across Etheria in a wasteland, and Adora has the nerve to show up.

Her and her stupid band of losers travel north, led by a woman with purple skin and more muscles than She-Ra, who Adora can’t keep her stupid eyes off of.

She’s not sure what stings more: the sand that hits her eyes as the wind picks up, or watching Adora fawn over someone else. It’s—well, it’s also stupid, and she knows that. She and Adora never _were_ anything, she has no excuse for the pinpricks she feels against her skin when Adora sneaks another glimpse of Buff Purple Lady or when she twirls the ends of her ponytail around her finger as they speak.

So it’s with a wicked joy that Catra smacks her whip to the ground to catch Adora’s attention once their parties cross paths, and Adora chases after her like it’s a learned reflex. After a short struggle Catra’s got Adora with her foot on the small of her back, pressing her into the ground and holding up her ridiculous shiny sword. 

Scorpia ties back Adora’s hands and ankles, and they load her onto the skiff, just barely big enough for three people. The friends she and Scorpia have made follow behind on a shoddily-constructed sail made by Lizard Girl, apparently. Catra’s never been good with names.

They ride in silence, Adora wearing a pout like a child coming down from a temper tantrum. She glowers in Catra’s direction as they fly away.

“Wanna explain why you’ve kidnapped me this time?” Adora shouts, warring with the loud gusts of wind passing between them. 

“Are you kidding?” Catra asks. “You think I’ll give up a chance to get you right where I want you?”

Adora narrows her eyes. “And where is that, exactly?”

“Under my watch.”

“Catra, what’s your plan here? You capture me, you take my sword, and then what? Take me back to the Horde?”

“Uh,” Catra answers, “yeah. Obviously.”

“The Horde which you don’t belong to anymore?” Adora spits back, Catra’s bluff called. “Yeah. I saw you’re not wearing your badge.”

“So what if I’m not?”

“If you’re not taking me to Hordak, what are you doing here with me?” Adora asks. “You got me. Now what?” 

Catra freezes. She doesn’t have an answer.

She’s not fighting for the Horde, she doesn’t have any arbitrary goal of world domination anymore. But it’s a reflex to strike where she can, when she can. It’s a rule: get the better of your opponent in any way possible, get the enemy under your palm whenever you‘re able.

Without the Horde between them, Adora isn’t technically the enemy anymore. She _is_ , but without the Horde, Catra becomes something pathetic, becomes nothing more than a whiny child acting on her hurt feelings. 

But Adora is here. And in her, there’s everything she’s running away from and everything she wants all in one. She’s running from the feeling of coming in second. She’s running toward vindication for her years of struggle, of trauma, of suffering. Adora is the intersection. She can figure out the game plan as she goes, but it’s not like she would turn down the chance to catch the thing she’s been chasing for so long.

* * *

The dreams are, maybe, the worst part of the Waste. The ground beneath her is made of rocks and dust and sand, uncomfortably grainy underneath the blanket she’s laid down for herself.

The rocks, the sand, the air—it puts an itch in the back of her throat, a weight that pushes against her chest, deflating her lungs and crushing her ribs. 

She sees the throne room sometimes, the Black Garnet, the looming black and red of Shadow Weaver’s shadow spies circling her body and reaching out to grasp at her neck. She’ll fall to the floor, cold as the desert turns at night, with no air to breathe and no one to care if she ever stands back up.

And sometimes the dreams are bad, but they’re a different kind of bad entirely. She’s a child again. She’s wrapped up in the very blanket she sleeps cocooned in now, and she watches herself cry into Adora’s chest. Adora’s words of comfort all slur together, but she makes out the very end of their conversation before the dream fades.

“Promise?” Catra hears her younger self ask.

Adora takes her hand, every time. “Promise.”

* * *

“I have a proposition,” Adora says once they land the skiff for the night. 

“You don’t get to make propositions,” Catra rolls her eyes. “I captured you, remember?”

Adora ignores her. “We work together. Strike up an alliance. 

“What makes you think I’d ever agree to that?”

“Hordak cast you out. Don’t you want to get back at him?” Adora eyes her, considers her for a moment. “You’ve changed. But not that much. I know you’d want to pull one over on him—“

“Oh, shut up, Adora. I have enough going on, I don’t need to waste my time helping you.”

Scorpia perks up, emerging from where they’ve parked the skiff with an armful of ration packs. “Really? Just a couple nights ago you were talking about how bored you were just fighting off morons—“

“Ugh, _Scorpia_!”

Adora smirks. “You’re looking for something to do, huh? Then take me where I need to go. I promise you Hordak’ll show up, and you’ll get your chance to get back at him.” 

Catra scowls, but she agrees anyway.

* * *

Sometimes she’ll stop, sometimes she’ll get a break in the day where she’s not entertaining Scorpia or arguing with Adora and she’ll forget how to breathe.

The world surrounding her is hot, oppressively hot, an atmosphere that’s hard to breathe in on its own, harder still when she remembers the feeling of being really, truly out of breath, with dark spots dancing in her eyes until her vision gives out completely. 

She’ll gasp, twice. Once in disbelief that she can grasp air into her lungs, twice in relief that she’s alright.

Neither Adora nor Scorpia seems to notice as she fights off the struggle and memory that close her throat, but then again, that’s normal. No one ever seems to notice how hard she fights, and she’s not sure if she prefers or resents that.

* * *

She asks Adora once what it feels like when they’re teenagers, her head in Catra’s lap, Catra’s claws tracing lines down her arms as Adora shakes and whimpers, chasing off the throes of panic with a chest that moves heavy, uneven.

“It’s like, I keep trying,” Adora says after the waves have for the most part passed, tears carving a path down her cheeks as they begin to dry. “But I can’t breathe, no matter what I do.”

So when she hears Adora’s gasp cuts through the quiet at night, head hitting against the rocky ground as she writhes underneath her ties, trying to curl her body upward, Catra understands.

She knows what it’s like now, after all, as hard as she tries not to think on it—grasping and struggling for breath only to be met with a burn in her throat, the feeling of boulders weighing down her body as her head gets lighter and lighter still. So she takes pity.

Catra lunges forward, grabbing onto Adora’s shoulders like it’s her duty, like it’s urgent, steadying her as she struggles. She takes one hand underneath Adora’s chin and tips her head forward, willing her to look Catra in the eye.

“Adora,” Catra says as she watches a tear roll down Adora’s cheek. “Focus on me. Breathe.”

Adora nods as she follows along, takes a long inhale and gives a longer exhale. For a moment, they breathe in tandem, and Catra listens to the deep huff of Adora’s breath and feels nostalgic, somehow.

“Can you untie me? My hands, at least?” Adora’s voice is quiet, barely there at all. Catra tilts her head, glaring back at her. “Catra, please. I won’t do anything, I promise.”

“Because you’re so good at keeping those,” Catra mutters with a low chuckle. But she sees how Adora’s brow creases, how the shudder of a sob passes through her, and she gives in. She sighs, struggling to pick the knot she’s made until she gives up and slashes through the rope with one claw.

The ropes fall from Adora’s wrists into her lap, and Adora stretches her arms over her head before rubbing at her eyes and bracing her elbows on her legs, hands against her forehead. She folds inward, the curve of her back shaking with her breathing.

“I—” Adora starts, before cutting herself off. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear.”

“You can talk, if you want to,” Catra says.

“I—I just have so many questions,” Adora says. “I keep asking myself, trying to figure it all out, and then they—I don’t know. They get out of control.”

“Questions about…?”

Adora twists the rope, fiddling with its frayed ends as she weaves it through her fingers. “Light Hope told me I’m a First One.”

Catra snorts. “What the fuck does that mean?

“The First Ones settled Etheria. Uh, over a thousand years ago. She says a portal brought me here as a baby.”

“And you believe her?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Adora swallows, breathing out as she wipes at her eyes again. “I’m already some sort of freak. Why not go all out? Be the biggest freak in the entire world.”

Catra takes a second to consider this, and Adora closes her eyes as another sob passes through her. Catra rubs a hand against her back, downward strokes that match the rhythm of her breath. Adora mumbles her a quick “thank you.”

“Don’t think I’m hitting on you,” Catra says in return, “but you look good for being a thousand.”

Adora’s still staring down at her hands, but Catra swears she catches her lips twitch upwards into the beginnings of a smile. Catra calls it a peace offering, a momentary ceasefire.

“I don’t know what it all means,” Adora looks back to Catra. “But I want answers. I want to know where I came from.”

“Why?” Catra asks.

“Don’t you ever wonder where _you_ came from?”

“Nah.”

“You don’t?” Adora moves one hand through Catra’s hair up towards her ear, as if to ask a question, as if to prove a point. She pinches the tip lightly before scratching behind its base. Catra doesn’t fight the purr that rings out, the way her head leans into Adora’s hand involuntarily. 

Adora’s hand moves downward slowly, tentatively, to cup her cheek. Catra catches her wrist, her thumb pressing into the heel of Adora’s hand. They’re both frozen, and Catra watches Adora’s eyes widen with a strange sort of hunger, vulnerable and steadfast all at once and unlike Catra’s seen them before. She looks at the tears staining Adora’s face, her cheeks blushing red, her lips—

Adora hangs her head, resting the top against Catra’s forehead. “I’m tired, Catra.”

Catra doesn’t ask her what she’s tired of. She figures she can guess: because as tired as Adora is, Catra is even more so. She’s exhausted. Exhausted by She-Ra, of running and fighting and always being on her guard, of all the longing she wills herself not to feel during the daytime coming out to plague her during the night.

Catra sighs, tightening her grip on Adora’s wrist. “Me too.”

* * *

If she’s telling the truth, she’s wondered. Of course she’s wondered. No one else in the Horde looks like her, what with her tail and ears and claws. 

She thinks back to being a child—hearing ghost stories about princesses, horror stories about beasts with fangs and talons. When they cross the threshold over towards adulthood, Adora becomes the princess. And when Hordak has her by the throat in his throne room, her last thought before falling to the floor is a pang of terror that she’ll be shipped off to become the beast.

So, yeah, she’s wondered—but she’s never hoped for an answer. Hoping leads to disappointment, she thinks, as she looks on at the wreck Adora becomes when she’s left alone with her thoughts for more than a few minutes, saying some nonsense Catra doesn’t understand about an ancient civilization she’s somehow responsible for.

What does it matter where she’s from? She can’t stand to look behind, to try and grasp at memories that are long erased. All she can do now is go forward.

* * *

They reach Scorpion Hill, where She-Ra’s fan club-turned-militia meets them. 

“Glimmer scouted ahead,” Adora bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking the sail of the skiff every so slightly. “Hordak and his troops are there, so...we’re on. You ready?”

Catra shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good,” Adora nods, quick and curt. “We’re waiting for her signal.” 

Catra nods. She and Adora stand close together on the sail, so close that she’s almost suffocating, too close to stretch or move much in any direction.

“So what are you gonna do after this?”

“Don’t start, Adora,” Catra scowls. “Don’t give me the ‘join the Rebellion! You’re a good person, Catra!’ speech, I’ve heard it, and I’m not—“

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Adora says.

“What?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come with me,” Adora offers her a small smile. “Thanks for your help, I appreciate it. I really do.” 

“So what,” Catra asks, “you’re just using me as your escort service?”

“Aren’t you doing the same thing with Scorpia?” 

“She’s not just my ride.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Catra tenses, because _yes_ , she _is_ using Scorpia, because she knows Scorpia would cross hell or high water or unforgiving desert for her, and she needs to make use of that kindness just to stay alive. But it’s not like Adora needs to know that.

She knows exactly what Adora meant, but it’s not something she ever wants to admit. She’s not doing Adora any favors. She refuses to care for something that could never care for her in return. She’s done caring—she knows better. 

But still, Catra reaches out toward Adora like it’s an impulse, like it’s all she knows how to do. Maybe that’s the start of her problems, spelled out for her right there.

“You know that I care about you,” Adora looks away, out toward the horizon. “You know that it hurts me knowing I hurt you, and you’ve been using that to manipulate me. And if you didn’t care about me, you’d have given all of this up by now.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ 

Adora snorts. “Please. I saw how you looked at Huntara. I thought you were gonna kill her.” Adora sighs, watching Catra as she creases her brow and narrows her eyes. “Don’t worry, we’re not together or anything. She-Ra’s been too busy having an existential crisis to date.”

“Wow,” Catra says sarcastically. “I’m so relieved. So, what, you got it in your head that I missed you, and you used that to take advantage of me? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Adora only shrugs.

“You must feel like a genius,” Catra laughs, dry and humorless. “I’ve never seen you use your brain so much. You tired from all that mental gymnastics?”

“Catra,” Adora snaps. “ I don’t want you to come with me. Can you stop making fun of me and take me seriously for _once?”_

“I wasn’t coming with you, anyway,” Catra says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m just surprised you’ve got a backbone.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve changed. You haven’t,” Adora studies her, folding her arms across her chest. “At least, not that much.”

“Do you _want_ me to change?”

Before Adora can answer, there’s a flash, and then Glimmer is by their skiff with Bow and the purple lady by her side. “Okay, we’ve found a clear path. A few Horde guards, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Adora stands firm, eyes set outward with an intensity Catra knows well. One she’s admired before, one that she’s scowled at from across a battlefield, one that she’s not quite sure how she’s meant to feel about now. 

“Sounds good,” Adora says. “Catra, give me the sword.”

Catra obliges with a roll of her eyes, hitting Adora’s hand as they trade possession of the sword. Adora grasps the hilt.

She watches numbly as Adora steps off the sail and transforms, as the world erupts in sparks of light and Adora emerges as She-Ra, as Adora becomes someone Catra doesn’t know yet again.

* * *

It’s a hell of a battle—there’s a point midway through where she watches She-Ra fall to her knees, panting and shaking like she won’t find the strength to stand back up. There’s a point where Catra wonders if there’s ever going to be an After. 

But somehow, both Catra and Adora find themselves in the After of it now.

She-Ra is gone, and Adora is a flash of wheat and white as she runs toward Catra.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” Adora says, “before we get going.”

“Needed something to do,” Catra says simply. “Don’t think I did you a favor.”

Adora’s hair is down, like it hardly ever is. Dry blood cracks against it, and rubble has left the ends dirty and matted. It should be vindicating, seeing her so disheveled after a battle Catra’s won, but Catra remembers that she’s just won a battle on She-Ra’s behalf. Her eye twitches as she thinks on it.

There’s a moment where they’re not nemeses, not trying to kill one another—Catra’s determined to make the pendulum swing the other way, and determined to make sure Adora knows.

Adora extends a hand. “You did good out there.”

“I’ve always done good. Don’t patronize me.”

Adora only sighs, sticking out her hand further and raising an eyebrow at her, like Adora has the nerve to think her rude for not wanting to shake hands with the enemy.

Well, Catra thinks. It would be a shame for Adora to think her rude. It’s not like she hasn’t given Adora a million other reasons to hate her.

She takes Adora’s hand and shakes. Then Catra pulls her closer, Adora’s eyes widening quick. She feels Adora’s pulse quicken where Catra’s hand grasps her wrist, and it’s what she’s wanted, it’s delicious, it’s—it’s not enough.

Catra smirks wide. She lifts her other hand to cup Adora’s cheek, pushing the hair away from her eyes.

Adora almost smiles in return, her lip quivering, but she doesn’t get the opportunity to.

Catra extracts her claws and slashes downward, three jagged lines blooming ugly and dark on Adora’s cheek.

Adora gasps, falls to the ground with a curse, a cry, a whimper—all at once, somehow. Catra stands and watches, basking in the glow of a job well done.

“ _Fuck_!” Adora’s voice is thin and worn, yet it still fills the air around them. “What the _fuck_ , Catra?”

“Oh, relax,” Catra says. “I didn’t do anything that She-Ra can’t heal.”

“I’m not She-Ra!” 

Adora’s peeling off her top, as quick as she can, wrestling with it until she pulls it over her face with a hiss and then presses it to her cheek. Catra stares at Adora, sitting in nothing but her breast guard and leggings, and watches as the white shirt turns red, then turns red, then turns redder still until she can’t watch anymore. She turns away. 

She’s never seen She-Ra bleed like that, not even after she’d torn up her back during the Battle of Bright Moon. It’s not going to kill her, but the wounds gush blood like Catra’s claw marks never have against her before. 

“You’re not She-Ra?” Catra snorts. “I don’t know, that tall lady landing one on Hordak looked pretty familiar.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Adora's words are muffled by the shirt, her voice contorting with pain. “My body doesn’t heal like hers does.”

Oh. _Oh_. 

“This isn’t going to heal, Catra.”

Catra’s blood runs cold.

“What,” Adora says, “you’re not even gonna turn and face me now?”

Catra would, but if she did Adora would see how her face is frozen, how the beginning hints of tears well in her eyes and how the crease in her brow runs deep. 

She didn’t expect it to last. She didn’t expect this wound to matter. She expected a quick swipe, a slap on the wrist of sorts that would be long gone by the next time she and She-Ra crossed paths. 

Catra saw a woman with white clothes and blonde hair running long down her back in front of her, and she pounced. She didn’t realize she’d pounced on the wrong enemy. 

She wishes that both her enemies weren’t the same person.

She takes a deep breath, and she looks toward Adora again. Adora is holding the shirt—now soaked through, staining her hand—to her face like it’s desperate, letting out a whimper every so often. Her face looks pale, her eyes dim. Catra imagines what her handiwork will look like once it’s healed. 

Adora meets her eyes, angry like Catra’s never seen her before. Catra can’t take it—she turns away again.

She’d said she needed to pick a new finishing blow. She reckons she’s found one. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u to albs (emollience on ao3) for shouting with me for a full week about adora having facial scars and giving me that last piece of angst i needed to make this fic come together
> 
> my computer is broken, this was uploaded on ipad so i’ll comb through for any formatting issues but i just wanted to be the first to write something angsty about adora’s scars and had to act fast!!
> 
> as always find me on twitter and tumblr at @rushvalleys :)


End file.
